


sweetness (cause a rockslide)

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Inquisition - Jaws of Hakkon
Genre: (maybe), Crushes, F/M, Hero Worship, Jaws of Hakkon, Jaws of Hakkon Spoilers, Pining, Scout Harding Appreciation Nation, smitten nerds mooning over heroic dwarven ladies and their musculature
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 19:58:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3741736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She saves his life and he counts her freckles; this is the way of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sweetness (cause a rockslide)

She‘s very brave, he thinks, peeking out over the top of a book in time to watch her shoot an arrow straight through a gurgut‘s maw. While it shrieks and bucks in a panic, a second arrow pierces its skull straight through the eye. With a wailing keen and a thud of finality, it collapses, dead on the ground. 

 

_ Two arrows. _

 

“Yeah,” she says, wandering closer, and the look on her face is familiar. Usually it means he‘s been thinking out loud. “You alright, Professor?”

 

“More than alright, now that you‘ve arrived,” he answers in earnest. Too earnest? Her brow furrows just a little, but there‘s a tilt to her lips that suggests he‘s not been perceived as untoward.

 

“Let‘s get you back to camp,” she says in lieu of response, strapping the bow to her back with practiced ease. Behind her, blood flows from the gurgut’s eyes into the burbling stream. She probably wants to skin it, harvest its webbing and flesh while it’s still pliant and easy, but she doesn’t give it a second glance. Her eyes are for him and not the oozing wealth of resources felled by her own hand. He can feel his ears going red and is grateful for the cover his hat provides. Scout Lieutenant Harding gestures toward the path on the hill with a little smile and turns to follow it. “Maybe try not to wander off alone with your nose in a book next time.”

 

“Of course,” he agrees, and attempts to meet her stride with awkward, short steps. Just when he thinks he knows the way of it, he starts to fall behind. “I do believe I‘ve learned my lesson.”

 

* * *

 

He hasn‘t.

 

It is foolish, but Bram gets restless when he‘s reading; his legs set to pacing without his consent, and before he knows it, an hour‘s passed and he‘s somewhere up river, or down the valley, or along the Cloudcap lakeshore.

 

Or, as the case appears to be, tumbling straight off a cliff.

 

There‘s a lurch in his stomach when he goes to plant his foot on the ground and it meets nothing at all, a gasp punched from his lungs as his balance tips and he’s stumbling, dropping like a lead weight down over the ravine. He watches the book fall from his hands below him, and almost hysterically, he despairs of its loss more than his own imminent demise.

 

But before he can even cry out, what little air was left in his body is gone when the sash around his waist is yanked brutally from behind, and for a split second the world tilts; the drop into the ravine becomes a view of the clear blue sky, framed by gently swaying branches. And then he’s flat on his back, gasping for air that his body doesn’t want to take in, wildly dizzy and aching from his shoulders to his backside. 

 

A lovely face peers at him from above to block out the sun, panting while he gulps in air. Scout Harding’s cheeks are flushed, and oh, she looks cross. 

 

“If it’s all the same to you, Professor,” she breathes, hands on her knees, “I’d rather not have to scrape your mangled body off the rocks. We can find so many cleaner ways for you to go.”

 

Cross with _him_. 

 

How embarrassing.

 

“You saved my life,” he says. Or croaks. It’s practically unintelligible through his wheezing, but he feels it must be said. “Again!”

 

She still looks upset, but somewhere in those brilliant green eyes, something like amusement sparks. 

 

The lieutenant gives them both a moment to catch their breath before she holds out a hand to him, and he spares a moment to marvel at the strength it must have taken to pull him bodily from the fall, to pierce a gurgut’s skull in one shot, to tug a fully grown human to his feet. The thought conjures butterflies in his belly, but he does not take the time to pay them any mind. “You make it a little too easy for bystanders to become heroes.”

 

 _Bystanders_ , she says, like she just happened to be nearby as he walked blindly toward his death. Like the flush in her cheeks and her shortness of breath didn't imply a rather impressive sprint to save him from his tumble.

 

“Perhaps heroism comes naturally to you,” he suggests instead, and she laughs. The color in her cheeks is still bright, and Bram counts it as a small victory - though compared to her rescues, it hardly seems a victory at all.

 

* * *

 

The sun has long gone down when a knock comes at his door. Three short raps, polite but insistent, rouse him from his notes and Bram opens to find the lady Harding on his doorstep. She rolls onto the balls of her feet, hands behind her back. The grin she wears is a playful one, and she is exceptionally lovely in the lamplight. 

 

“I think you might’ve dropped this earlier,” she says, and hands him -

 

His heart leaps. “My research!” Bram takes the tome from her hands, damp and filthy but intact, and tucked between the pages are his own notes that he’d thought surely scattered to the wind. All of it, fallen into the rocky stream when he nearly took his fatal plunge. He had despaired for a time, but chalked it up to a loss - knowledge he'd only hoped to retain in memory - and yet here it sits in his hands. All because of Harding.

 

“It’s still wet,” she’s saying, her tone _apologetic_ of all things, “and there are mud stains that’ll never come out, and I bent the spine to let it dry in the sun, and most of it seems… smudged beyond recognition, but -”

 

“You are a wonder,” he breathes, clutching it to his chest. The urge to embrace her is a strong one, so he clings to the book instead. “Truly a marvel. You’re incredible, my lady. This means… more to me than I can say.”

 

“Uh.” She tilts her head a little to the side, shifting her weight. “Well. I really think you weren’t listening when I said it’s nearly illegible now, but... you’re welcome.”

 

Bram asks her in for a cup of tea, an invitation accepted (to his delight), and when she finally departs, he feels emboldened enough to take her by the hand. He kisses smooth, dark leather and thanks her twice more for the return of his research. He might also lean against the door frame to watch her stroll away until she is swallowed by shadow. 

 

Also, possibly, there may be a long and heartfelt sigh, but as nobody is around to record it, the quiet noise is lost to history.

 

 

* * *

 

He‘s not a poet, but the things he finds himself thinking of her smile are positively lyrical. The constellation of her freckles dance when she grins, and the corners of her eyes crease under the pressure of her delight. She‘ll have the most charming laughter lines one day to bracket the long sweep of her eyelashes.

 

Colette has a particular noise for when she catches him staring. Over time it evolves from intrigue to something more like amusement. She’s discrete, Colette, and entirely respectful, but when she’s trying not to tease him, her eyes go bright in earnest. 

 

But she doesn’t tease, and it makes him squirm. He’s the youngest of four siblings; old habits die hard. 

 

Bram asks her, once, why she doesn’t at least poke a little fun, and the look she gives him is a strange one. 

 

“Why should I?” she says, a bemused sort of grin lifting the corners of her lips. “I think it’s sweet, Professor. I’ve never seen you indulge in hero worship before, and you know more about heroes than anyone I’ve ever met.”

 

“Hero worship!” He wants to protest, finds himself distressed. Certainly he finds the lady Harding to be heroic, but _worship_ implies he’s set her upon a pedestal - one she hardly needs. To have it said aloud gives him pause to worry, fear he’s given the dear lady the same impression he's unknowingly given his assistant, but Colette just laughs in her quiet way.

 

“It is not undeserved,” she admits. “You should hear how her people regale her. They are the Nightingale's agents in name, but I believe their loyalties lie a little lower to the ground.” 

 

She’s off to poke around Nigel’s Point from where the scouts have marked it on their map, but the old Avvar territory poses concerns to Bram. It’s too far from the camp, or the outpost, or even Stone-Bear Hold to give him any comfort. But she has a great spirit and a thirst for knowledge and a decent sword arm that begets bravery when wandering into the unknown (these traits in Bram while lacking skill in battle indicate carelessness instead).

 

On the morning she’s due to depart, Bram waits outside of her tent with every intention to walk her to the edge of camp. He clasps his hands behind his back, smiling to hear her fuss over her own gear, grinning a little wider when she tells him not to laugh, but could she please borrow some blank vellum for the journey. 

 

He returns from his hut, arms laden with parchment and extra ink, to find not just Colette, but Harding waiting for him. He notes the pack strapped to Harding’s back along with her bow, and he hastens his own footsteps. 

 

“Good morning, lady Harding,” he calls, fumbling a little with the armful. Colette already has that look about her that suggests he might be a too chipper for the hour, and for very little at all aside from Harding‘s presence. For a moment he thinks to school his expression, but then Harding is smiling in his direction, and Bram finds he could not temper his mood if he wanted to.

 

“Good morning, Professor.” Her smile broadens just the tiniest bit, and the canary in Bram’s belly starts to flutter. “If you’re coming along, you’re gonna want to pack more than that.”

 

“Coming alo- ah, no, not - are you going as well?”

 

“My scouts have reported several sightings of the Jaws of Hakkon in the northeast,” Harding says, shifting the bow on her shoulder as Colette kneels to stow Bram’s vellum away in her pack. “I thought Colette could use the company.”

 

“I appreciate it,” he says, and backtracks when Colette gives him a look. “Not that you aren‘t fearsome with a blade, Colette, but I can‘t pretend it doesn‘t comfort me to know you won‘t be alone.”

 

“I won‘t be gone long,” Harding says when Colette stands to re-shoulder her pack. “The Inquisitor is due within the next few days. Colette and I will meet up with a few of my people at the research outpost. They‘ll accompany her to the Point.”

 

“I am not a child to be passed from guardian to guardian,” Colette reminds them archly, readjusting a strap on her belt in a successful attempt to avoid their eyes. The line of her mouth is unhappy, and Bram knows better than to part on poor terms.  


 

“No,” he agrees, “just a friend, and a valued member of my team who I‘d prefer to go on living for a great many years to come.”

 

The tips of her ears go pink and Harding offers him a smile.

 

“You‘re formidable women,” Bram says, “but even so, try to avoid danger. If you can.”

 

“That‘s my line,” Harding says  with well-intended laughter in her eyes. “Stay safe, Professor,” are her parting words before they are off into the basin. Bram waits and watches until they are out of sight over a distant hill before returning to his shack at a moderate pace.

 

Hero worship. That‘s what Colette calls it. It‘s succinct enough. It could very well explain the quickening of his pulse when she looks his way. Or how his insides leap when her laughter fills the space around her as though with song. Or how he finds his brain, in its ceaseless thirst for knowledge, attempting to count the freckles on her nose.

 

Or any number of things he has to wonder have anything to do with hero worship at all.

  
  


* * *

 

_ The forward camp has been facing resistance from the Jaws of Hakkon, but it is nothing the Inquisition cannot manage. We depart to the Point tomorrow at dawn. From there I intend to travel east toward Swamp Kuldsdotten. If I cannot secure an Inquisition entourage, I will send word. _

_Her hair falls in unkempt waves when she lets it loose. You did not hear this from me_ , Colette writes, and the lady Harding looks up at him with a curious smile. She’s still covered in travel dust, her gear remaining at her back, but she’s come straight to Bram to deliver the note. 

 

More than anything, this is what makes him feel the guiltiest when he hastily excuses himself to retreat into his cabin to reread the passage twice before stowing it away in the pages of a book where he himself might never find it again. 

 

(He would burn it, but he is a coward, loathe to let the maddening words die away to ash.)  


 

 

* * *

 

When the Inquisitor arrives in the Basin, Bram has a first-hand view of true blue deification. The mood of the camp has never been low, as it were, but when the Inquisitor appears, it raises exponentially. He didn‘t even know half of them _could_ smile, dour and mysterious as they are, but apparently the Inquisitor inspires the impossible.

 

He can‘t say he‘s not a little taken himself. There is something clever and terribly old behind the Inquisitor‘s eyes. The impressive-looking people behind the Inquisitor, battle-hard and travel-weary, fare little better. They look to the Inquisitor with varying degrees of quiet respect and fondness.  

 

Bram is finding quite a few things to be in common between dwarves. 

 

He leaves Harding and her Inquisitor to speak at their leisure, hopeful only that he’d made a respectable first impression upon Harding’s own hero. When he speaks to the Inquisitor in the privacy of his cabin, the first thing that springs to mind is a compliment regarding Harding - her competency and efficiency and that of her scouts. He corrects himself swiftly of the improper title given her (he really must stop thinking of her in this way if he’s to give her proper respect), and moves quickly past the spark of recognition in the Inquisitor’s eyes. Bram allows little time for them to mull over his mistake before he goes on about the artifacts Harding’s people have recovered, pulling bits and pieces from his shelves for the Inquisitor’s perusal. This is followed by a swift dive into a number of tomes once the Inquisitor begins to ask questions. 

 

When the Inquisitor’s party ducks out of the doorway, Bram halts their Herald with an inquiry after Colette. She’d sent word she’d be traveling west alone, after all, and it gnaws at him. If she has someone like the Inquisitor keeping an eye out for her, Bram is relatively certain she will be well and whole. 

 

Harding finds him after the party has departed from camp, her eyes dancing. She in particular is not immune to the effects of the Inquisitor’s presence in the Basin. 

 

“My people have a bit of a... thing for our Inquisitor,” she says, and her smile tilts sheepishly in admittance to her guilt in kind. “Hero worship, maybe.”

 

“Is that what you’d call it?” Bram asks lightly as he gestures her inside for tea. She steps past his threshold and over to his cupboard with all the ease of familiarity. 

 

“Oh, definitely.” She finds his preferred leaves, and her own while he hastens to make himself useful with an enchanted flask of hot water (his favorite of all her finds). “If they ever took the time to know the Inquisitor, though, there’s no doubt in my mind it’d be a lot more like love.” 

 

Bram tucks away a curious note at how his heart feels suddenly, inexplicably lighter as he fills her cup with water and they watch the tea leaves steep.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> MORE INTERRACIAL DWARF RELATIONSHIPS *bangs fists on the table* MORE INTERRACIAL DWARF RELATIONSHIPS
> 
> Title from “Cause a Rockslide” by Badly Drawn Boy: _Can I get close to you if only for a while / I don't need to busy you / You're the jive guru and I want to sing along with you / Your sweetness would cause a rockslide / If only before the summertime_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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